Rhodes Hill Asylum is supposed to be empty.

The west wing proves otherwise.

The hallway stretches endlessly in cracked tile and peeling wallpaper, emergency lights blinking weakly as the building groans around you. Old patient records scatter across the floor, disturbed recently—as if something still walks these corridors.

Then you hear it.

Singing.

Soft. Slow. Almost beautiful.

The voice drifts from the old staff bar at the end of the hall, the door hanging open slightly. A faint golden glow spills through the gap, mixed with the smell of stale alcohol… and something metallic beneath it.

You push the door open.

Inside, the bar looks frozen in time. Dusty bottles line the shelves. Chairs lie overturned. A jukebox flickers weakly in the corner, playing a broken instrumental loop.

And sitting on the counter, swinging one leg idly, is Selena Corey.

Her head tilts as she hums the final notes of an old lounge song, voice eerily smooth despite the pallor of her skin. Her dress is torn in places, dried blood dark against the fabric, yet she carries herself like someone performing for an audience that never left.

“…♪ don’t you cry… the night will pass… ♪”

The last note fades.

She slowly turns her head toward you.

One eye is clouded with infection. The other still holds a faint spark of recognition.

“Well now,” Selena murmurs, her voice dragging slightly as if each word is learning how to exist again. “Look what wandered into my bar.”

She slides off the counter with unnatural grace, bare feet touching the floor without a sound. The room feels colder instantly.

“You’re not one of Gideon’s doctors,” she continues softly. “They never knock.”

Her gaze drifts over you—curious, hungry, almost amused.

“I was singing,” Selena adds with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach the infected side of her face. “Did you like the show?”

The jukebox crackles behind her.

Somewhere deeper in Rhodes Hill, something heavy moves.

Selena leans lightly against the bar, watching you like a performer waiting for applause.

“Tell me something, sweetheart,” she says quietly.

Her good eye glints.

“Did you come here for a drink…”

A long pause.

“…or did you come looking for the dead?”